Just a Feeling
by Lisa Paris
Summary: Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home...
1. Chapter 1

**White Collar**

_This one's for Peggy and Pamela - and all the friendly words and encouragement. Thanks, guys,_

_Lisa._

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Prologue**_

_There it was. What the hell was wrong with Peter? _Neal watched with a sinking feeling. The whole thing was blown wide open and it was high time they made their escape. _Too late… _he made a move for the open door as Berrigan and her team appeared from nowhere. Maybe, _just maybe_, they could still pull this off and get out of here with their lives.

"You did this," O'Hara, it seemed, had other ideas, as he pulled out a Glock from his waistband. He pointed the weapon straight at Neal's chest, and there was no compromise on his face.

"Run, Neal!"

He saw Peter lurch into the Irishman and somehow the bullet burned past him. The world stopped and then spun in slow motion as both men sprawled flat on the ground. His ears rang from the staccato burst of shooting and someone was shouting instructions. O'Hara's goons were firing back determinedly and the stench of cordite hung in the air.

_Almost there…_ he just about made it, diving wildly for any kind of cover. He slid towards a group of tables in the corner when the shock of hot lead tore through his flesh…

* * *

_**Part One**_

El paused and rechecked her boarding pass. The taxi was due within minutes. She made a face at herself in the mirror and carefully patted her hair. _Not too shabby…_ she told her reflection before turning round and calling up the stairs.

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye? Come on, hon, your eggs are getting cold."

_What on earth could be keeping him?_ She felt a mild stab of impatience. Peter was usually up with the lark and very rarely ran late. Her annoyance faded almost instantaneously as she recalled him getting home after midnight. His team had been working around the clock on their latest high-profile case. A small sense of disquiet washed over her. Peter had been exhausted, almost haggard. He had been running on fresh air and adrenalin and today would be more of the same.

"Hey, you," the object of her thoughts swung cheerfully down the stairs and planted a swift kiss on her cheek. "I would make that a bit more substantial, but I'd hate to mess up your hair."

"To hell with my hair."

Reaching out, she grasped hold of his shirt front and impulsively pulled him in closer, her need for him both swift and unexpected, stopping him dead in his tracks. They clung together longer than intended. God, her husband was one hell of a kisser, moving jointly with a practised fluidity as their bodies pressed up against the wall.

"Sweetheart," his voice was low and gravelly. "How could you do this to me?" He rocked backwards and looked at her longingly, his pupils wide and smoky with desire. "Talk about a bit more substantial - that was really worth coming downstairs for. I'd like to drag you back up them again. Are you_ quite_ sure you have to go now?"

"I love it when you go all caveman on me," she tilted her head seductively. Her smile faded as she looked a little closer and another lurch of worry rocked her world. She wished she could shake off the sudden twist of doubt which had taken root in her stomach. "Lucky for both of us it's only a week. I just wanted to leave you with a promise. A little something to remember me by."

"I think you succeeded," he spoke softly, a regretful smile quirking his lips.

Running her hands around the back of his neck, she was intent on prolonging their encounter, but then she frowned as she realised how cold he was and stepped back to study his face. _Why hadn't she noticed how run down he looked? _She was dismayed at her lack of attention. He'd been working so hard on this counterfeit scam and burning the candle at both ends. She had been equally rushed off her feet, getting ready for the Detroit symposium. With a possible five hundred delegates it had been taking up most of her time.

"What's the matter?" Peter ribbed her gently, "having second thoughts about your hair?"

"Are you okay, hon?" She didn't pull any punches, and to be honest, she was concerned about him. He was so single-minded and focused when he got too wrapped up in a case. She trailed her hand over his forehead. "It's just that you look a little pale."

His tone was teasing, "Worried about me?"

"Always," she looked up at him soberly. "Every second of every day you're apart from me. We've barely spent a minute together since you and Neal began working this case."

"I know," his eyes clouded over. "The hours _have_ been pretty antisocial. I have some time owing when it's all over - maybe then we could get away. There's that inn you like up in the Hampton's…"

"Oh, honey," she wrapped both arms around him. "A few days on our own would be great."

The taxi interrupted them this time and Elizabeth pulled reluctantly away. Peter was adorably rumpled from their kiss, his tie askew from where she had grasped it. She reached up and straightened it carefully and then rested her hand on his skin. His carotid pulse jumped beneath her fingertips. It was sensual and incredibly reassuring. She lingered for a few seconds longer and Peter stood quite still and let her. He smiled down at her gently, a questioning look on his face.

"El?"

She picked up her bag with a shaky laugh. "Don't mind me, I'd better get going. There's no need to carry my suitcase, I'll call you when I reach my hotel."

But he did of course, loading it into the trunk and ignoring her half-hearted protests. They kissed once more as she got into the cab and then whispered their hurried goodbyes. She waved to him all the way down the street until the taxi swung around the corner, and then settled back against the upholstery, an unwarranted tear in her eye.

_Stupid,_ she was being so stupid. Seven nights suddenly seemed like a lifetime. She was already suffering from separation anxiety. He was a big boy, he would manage just fine.

* * *

When the cab disappeared, he went back inside. The house seemed impossibly empty. She'd only been gone a few moments, but something elusive was missing. A faint perfume of sandalwood lingered and Peter inhaled it nostalgically. The woody scent was so irrefutably _her_… a last trace of El in the air.

He paused and considered his choice of words. They sounded like an ending - so final. As though she had left him forever and would never return home again.

He wandered through into the kitchen and stared at the eggs on the table. They were cold, just as El had cautioned him, and already congealed on the plate. His stomach lurched just for a second with a horrid sort of seasick feeling. Closing his eyes, he leaned up against the counter, a cold sweat breaking out on his face. It took a while for the room to stop swaying and the vertigo to finally dissipate. His gut began clenching and roiling in waves as he fought the urgent need to be sick.

_Tired. _It was just he was so damned tired. This case was really taking it out of him. The counterfeiting scam was linked to money laundering and the treasury guys were breathing down his neck. They'd spent weeks on fruitless surveillance with no let up in the intensity. He'd been off his game for the last day or two and trying to hide it from El.

_God, El…_ that had been one hell of a kiss, and it made him feel better remembering. For a minute he thought he'd been rumbled and some sixth sense might force her to cancel. She was just too darn smart, he thought ruefully, and he was lousy at keeping things from her, but this symposium would be great for business and he didn't want her to miss it for him.

_Liar. _

He was such a bad liar. Peter thought of his warm bed longingly. It would be heaven to crawl under the duvet and spend a day being babied by his wife. As dreams went, it was up at the top of the list, but he needed to get with the programme. The day ahead of him was pretty important. With any luck, he could close this damned case.

Forcing himself, he picked up his breakfast and looked across at a hopeful Satchmo. He was surprised at how much it hurt to bend down as he scraped the cold eggs off the plate. He straightened up with a small grimace and pressed his hand under his ribcage. His belly felt surprisingly tender bearing in mind he hadn't eaten for hours.

"Better not tell her about this or we're both going to be in big trouble."

Satchmo gave him a conspiratorial glance and proceeded to demolish the evidence. Peter watched him, feeling suddenly guilty, and then realised he was going to be late. He reached for a large glass of water and then ransacked the kitchen drawers for some Tylenol. The meeting ahead was a tricky one and he needed to be on good form. The last words rang a little hollow when he considered the way he was feeling. Truth be told, all he really wanted was to turn around and head back to bed.

A few more minutes and he would have been done for if El had returned to the kitchen, but the kiss had turned out to be lucky in many more ways than one. He'd been dry-heaving up in the bathroom, trying to keep the noise down to a minimum, fighting hard to control the nausea until El was safely out of the way. _Thank god for toothpaste and mouthwash…_ he'd been surprised by the strength of her passion, and then her lips had worked some kind of witchcraft and he'd had a timely escape.

His wife had the sharpest eyes in the world and would have made an excellent agent. She would have noticed he felt sick in a heartbeat and demanded a thorough explanation. _Not that he had one, other than the tiredness._ He must have picked up some kind of stomach bug - probably his own fault for leaving his lunch in the car and then eating it late in the day.

There was nothing quite like day-old warm sandwiches…

His cell jumped with an in-coming text. Peter picked it up and quickly scanned the message;_ 'Coffee's getting cold – where are you?' _

He made a face and went to pick-up Neal.

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2012**_


	2. Chapter 2

**White Collar**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Two**_

El wheeled her suitcase onto the concourse and headed for the nearest bag-drop. According to the update on the information board, her flight was running on schedule. She looked down at her wristwatch, she was early, and there was still plenty of time to grab a coffee. Making her way across to the kiosk, she stood and waited patiently in line. The double espresso tasted heavenly and she savoured every dark and bitter mouthful. The boost of caffeine helped settle her stomach and clear the fog from her head.

Or at least it was supposed to, in theory, but an inkling of unease persisted. She had a gnawing sensation of wrong-time, wrong-place, like she should turn around and go home instead.

_What was up with her? _

There were no easy answers, and really, this was way out of character. Ever since she could remember, she had always enjoyed travelling alone. Especially airports, and _not_ just the duty-free, although she usually ended up with some new perfume. There was something about the sense of adventure which never failed to give her a buzz.

She sat down on a row of plastic seats and fished in her purse for her cell-phone. It was rare for Peter to pick-up at once, and as usual, she patched straight through to voice-mail. Not uncommon – in-fact, it was par for the course. Her husband was generally busy. She opened her messaging service and sent him a substitute text. It helped – not much, but a little - although she wasn't hopeful of an answer, but any contact, even via a cyber-link, made her feel just a tiny bit better.

She sighed, she was being irrational. Peter had been smiling when she'd left him. It was time for her to go through security, to stop dithering about and check-in.

_So why didn't she?_

El stared hard at her cell phone as though she could conjure an answer, but the wretched thing refused to cooperate and lay silent and still in her hand.

It was fine. There was nothing to worry about. _He'd been_ _fine,_ even teasing her gently. She recalled the flare of passion between them and the unguarded softness in his face. He'd made some comment about messing her hair up, brown eyes twinkling as he looked fondly down at her, and then distracted her with talk of the Hampton's and a stay at her favourite inn. She frowned, her forehead wrinkling abruptly. Sometimes he was too damned intelligent. Had she been the unwitting victim of a classic _divert and distract?_

Drat the man, she wouldn't put it past him, he wouldn't want her to worry. A wave of misgiving swept over her along with a sneaking feeling she'd been played. _Peter was spending too much time with Neal_, she rolled her eyes at the thought of the ex-conman, and rewinding the morning's events in her mind only served to add to her foreboding.

He'd seemed so drained and off-colour, although he had perked up during their encounter. His skin had been pale and cool to the touch and she remembered how gaunt he'd looked. If only she'd taken more notice, but she'd been in too much of a hurry. She was filled with a sudden suspicion he might have been putting on an act.

She looked down at her cell – still no answer. Normally, it wouldn't mean anything. She took a deep breath and pressed redial, feeling compelled to try calling again. _Voicemail._ She could have predicted it. Her heart began beating uncomfortably. El sat very still for a moment and struggled to decide what to do.

Yvonne had been in Detroit for three days and the symposium was meticulously organised. She was going along to shake hands and smile and ensure that everything ran okay. The whole event was pretty high-profile and all-in-all, a great opportunity, although Yvonne was perfectly capable of making sure it all stayed on track. It would be a big shame if she missed it, but El knew there would be other conferences. If she went and something happened to Peter, she would never forgive herself.

And yet, she had nothing to go on. Nothing but a big fat feeling. She wasn't some two-bit psychic and the situation was frankly absurd. If Peter was here, he would laugh at her… she smiled a little shakily. _If he was here,_ she wouldn't be panicking or talking herself into a state.

Picturing him helped for a second or two as she recalled their goodbyes in the hallway. The feel of his strong arms around her and the warmth of his breath in her hair. Hard to believe they'd been together so long when the thought of him still made her tingle, and any kind of future without him, was quite bluntly, too bleak to consider.

Her smile died and everything faded, all the vast hubbub and noise of the airport. The world shrank and contracted around her, as if she were floating in space. It was worse this time, clenching and painful, the sense of cold fear which washed over her. It ran like wildfire through her system and thudded hard in her veins.

_Couldn't leave…_

No way could she leave him.

El knew then with a sudden clarity. She would be stricken with regret for the rest of her life if she went ahead and boarded the plane. Sliding the cell back into her purse, she realised her hands were shaking badly. Something was wrong, she just knew it… she had to get home right away. Making the decision seemed to free her and she was filled with a sense of resolution. She gathered her belongings together and began walking fast towards the exit.

To hell with the Detroit symposium_, _as of right now, her husband needed her.

Peter was in some kind of danger.

El knew she had to stay.

* * *

A small frown creased Neal's forehead as he flicked another glance sideways. Peter had been terse and distracted ever since turning up late. _Something was up… _didn't have to be Einstein_._ It wasn't like him. As a rule, he was so focused. He was usually annoyingly determined especially when involved in a case.

There was the lateness and then there was the coffee. This morning he had totally rejected it. So okay, they were behind and on a deadline, but Neal had never known him turn it down before. Really, it was slightly uncanny, like the man had a built-in radar, usually arriving as the last drops of liquid filtered through into the jug. He would walk in and smile with pleasure as he inhaled the familiar aroma. In-fact, Peter was a total patsy when it came to Italian roast.

_Not this morning. _

He had ignored it completely, and muttered something about eating a big breakfast, impatiently tapping on the door frame while Neal took time buttoning his coat. No coffee, and apparently no small-talk. Peter, it seemed was all about the business. Neal sighed as they got into the Taurus. It was going to be a long day.

Conversation was clearly futile so he opted for more covert tactics. He settled back against the upholstery watching Peter's long hands on the wheel. The traffic was heavy as they wove through the streets, bumper to bumper and incredibly frustrating. He listened to the squeak of the wipers as the fine drizzle turned into rain.

_Good hands,_ he thought, _strong and capable_. The tanned fingers surprisingly shapely. A sudden jolt of awareness surprised him. He would trust them unconditionally with his life.

_With his life, maybe, but not with his secrets. _

_That_ was another story entirely. The thought made him shift uncomfortably and it was simpler to push it aside.

He frowned and considered the options but the mystery wasn't getting any clearer. Peter seemed quiet and rather subdued. He wasn't giving anything away. _Could be El's fault,_ Neal thought through the evidence. He remembered she was flying out this morning. Peter was usually a little abstracted whenever she went away.

He stared slightly harder at Peter's face. It might clarify the whole air of brusqueness, but his complexion was a separate issue. Peter looked drawn and in pain.

"Are you up for this?"

There was no point mincing his words. The task ahead was hardly a cakewalk. The counterfeiters were linked to the Irish Mob and there wasn't any room for mistakes.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I'd say it was pretty valid. Have you looked at yourself properly this morning? You look like something Satchmo coughed up."

"Thanks," Peter paused for a second, as if considering, and then straightened and answered him dryly. "I'll be fine, just a touch of indigestion. There hasn't been too much time for eating. Everything was a tad rushed this morning, what with El going away."

"Ah," Neal smirked and raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And so we get to the crux of the matter. Peter Burke's blue-eyed, Achilles Heel, the very lovely Elizabeth Burke. I never took you for a dog in the manger and the symposium will be great for her business. You need to learn to manage without her. Cowboy up, it's only six days."

"Six days can seem like a very long time when I'm forced to eat my own cooking."

"Don't be such a Neanderthal; you should see this as a great opportunity. Instead of moping around your man-cave, you can go flex your wings – _and_ your credit card."

"I happen to like my man-cave," Peter answered him firmly. "And Satchmo and I will manage just fine. There will be no flexing going on here."

"Peter, this is New York City, there's no excuse to turn into a hermit. Imagine everything that's on offer, we can eat some-place new every night."

"_We?"_

"It's no fun eating out by yourself."

He wasn't being wholly serious, of course, but it _was_ good to see Peter loosen up a little. The frown lines relaxed just a smidgen and a half-smile transformed his face.

"You know what, that might be a good idea," Peter swung the car into the parking lot. "I'll book a table at El's favourite Italian and take_ her_ there when she gets home."

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2012**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Authors Note: - Just to advise readers this story is finished and will be posted in its entirety._ **

* * *

**White Collar**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Three**_

_Worse. _He was feeling a damned sight worse. He couldn't fool himself any longer, but his team were on the verge of a major bust and now really wasn't the time. The pain had gone from dull ache to misery. This wasn't just any old stomach-bug. There was a fire burning under his ribcage and every step was like a knife in his gut. He had expected to feel better as the day went by, but things had gone from bad to ugly pretty quickly. Peter knew something was radically wrong and he'd never felt so awful in his life.

Taking a breath, he looked up at the sky. The falling rain was like a kind of benediction. The cold sting brought him out of his stupor and cooled the raging heat beneath his skin. He had a job to do – the end of weeks of planning. A deadly sting which was potentially hazardous. With luck a wrap to the counterfeit laundering scam which had cost him precious time with his wife.

The Irish Mob was notoriously mistrustful and arranging this meet had been difficult. There would be no second chances if they blew it. It was literally the only strike they'd get.

When it was over, he'd go see his doctor and get a course of antibiotics or something. With any luck, he'd be better in no time, there was really no point worrying El. When she got home this would all be finished with and he could treat her to her favourite Italian, then they could talk about that trip to the Hampton's. The FBI owed him plenty of leave.

_With any luck…_

"Comm. check, please confirm ear-buds working," Diana's voice was low in his head.

"Copy," Peter looked at his companion and nodded, but the other man was watching him sharply. Neal glanced towards the back door of the nightclub and uneasy lines furrowed his brow.

"Something's wrong with you."

It wasn't a question, and Peter knew it needed deflecting.

"Nothing's wrong," he set his teeth and answered evenly. "Not unless you forgot the plates?"

Neal rolled his eyes and patted his breast pocket. The look on his face spoke volumes. He continued to observe Peter carefully as they walked across the alleyway to the entrance. The club was closed up for business and the premises shrouded in darkness. The light was bad because of the weather even though it was barely noon.

_An omen… _

The sudden shadows were creepy and unseasonable, and shivering, he felt strangely uneasy. Something hovered on the fringes of Peter's consciousness, an eerie sense of out of time, out of place. The same thing had happened this morning when he'd stood in the empty hallway, an odd, almost visionary awareness when El's perfume had hung in the air.

It was nothing, the result of a poor night's sleep and a rock-bottom blood-glucose ratio. Premonitions had no place in his universe and he wasn't the fanciful type. Neal was still watching him, damn it, and Peter felt a stab of compunction. Perhaps he should have mentioned feeling unwell, but it was too late to jeopardise the case.

Each step hurt, and he was tempted to favour his side – to hunch over and protect his tender abdomen – but he could not afford to show any weakness right now. He still had a role to play. Straightening up, he leant on the door jamb and took a deep breath before knocking. The door opened and he gave Neal a steadying look before stepping firmly inside.

It took a second or two for his eyes to readjust to the cavern-like gloom of the interior. The club was dirty and stank of stale alcohol and the left-over haze of cigarettes. His stomach lurched, and for a horrible moment, Peter actually had to fight to control it; a clenching ripple and burn of acidity which left a rancid taste in his mouth. Swallowing hard, he struggled with the nausea and a sudden and more ominous threat of faintness. Cold fear brought forth a quick surge of adrenalin. He had to push his way through this somehow.

"If you please, gentlemen?"

They both raised their arms and were thoroughly frisked as O'Hara and his men moved towards them. The searching hands weren't exactly gentle and Peter bit down hard on his lip.

"You brought them," O'Hara didn't waste any time as Neal gave him the plates.

"A sample of my work, as requested," Neal watched as the Irishman studied them closely. "Unlike scanned copies, close to undetectable. Pretty flawless, I think you'll agree?"

"They look good," O'Hara agreed slowly," but it's not just about the printing."

He could sense the Irishman's interest as the trap was well and truly baited. Peter steadied himself and moved forward. "I think this is where I step in. It doesn't matter if the artwork is flawless if the paper or ink is substandard. I can provide the quality you're after, but high quality comes at a price."

"Halden?"

Neal nodded affirmatively. "This guy's the best chemist in the business. No track history and no previous convictions. The work he does is pretty much faultless. He's unknown to the FBI."

"How've you managed to stay under the radar so far?" O'Hara stared at him aggressively.

Peter met his eyes boldly. "By being very choosy whom I work for. My past clientèle have been impeccable, both rich and extremely discreet. Like Halden says, I'm the best at what I do, and my services come at a price."

There was silence for the briefest of moments, and then O'Hara smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Words, my friend, can sometimes come easy, but I'd like to see some real proof of that."

"Take a look," Peter reached for his wallet and handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill. "As you know, this is the acid test. The toughest note in the treasury to replicate. You must have verified the sample we sent you or I assume we wouldn't be here today?"

"You assume right, it was verified. My experts agreed it was good."

"And we can reproduce more of this standard. So tell me, can we do business or are you just wasting our time? Other parties have expressed an interest, and quite frankly, we need more than promises. If we're going to be working together then some proof of commitment would be nice."

Another silence, and Peter held his breath as he sensed rather than felt Neal tense beside him. O'Hara was a cold-blooded killer and maybe he'd pushed things too far.

"Know what, you've got balls and I like you," O'Hara sounded mildly amused as he folded up the bill into his pocket. "I think we can agree on an arrangement. You provide me with this kind of quality, and I'll handle the business side. We've finished with our former suppliers; let's just say they let us down badly. I'll be clear, there are no second chances. You came along at the right time."

_Finished with our former suppliers…_

Peter compressed his lips slightly at the Irishman's throwaway comment. The words were a gross euphemism and that was understating the case. The former suppliers had been finished with, all right, their contracts severed by anyone's standards. Their bodies had been found in the Gowanus canal, weighted down in the filthy water. They had been badly beaten and tortured and _finished off_ execution style.

A severe stab of pain jolted through him and drove the air from his lungs for a second. The room reeled and Peter barely caught himself in time, inhaling sharply in a reflex that shocked. The breath jammed somewhere under his ribcage as a shudder of hurt rippled through him. In the background, O'Hara was talking, laughing loudly at something Neal said.

The room receded and then grew larger, expanding into nightmare proportions. He was spinning in a lurid vortex as their voices became loud and distorted. He tried blinking and gasping in air through his mouth, but the sickness and vertigo persisted. His pulse raced with a sullen difficult beat as the blood drained away from his head.

_Not now… dear God, he couldn't pass out now._ Not when they were seconds from closing this. He was dimly aware he had staggered and of Neal's anxious eyes on his face.

_There it was…_ he barely heard Neal give the signal word – the one used to alert Diana, but everything was roaring around him as he broke out in an icy cold sweat.

Neal was moving but O'Hara was quicker as things went to hell all around them. The Irishman was no longer smiling and he held a gun in his hand. There was shouting and a piercing confusion of noise. He heard Diana's clear tones issuing orders. _Had to do something…_ he was an arm's length closer to O'Hara and Neal's only chance of escape.

"Run, Neal!"

Peter made a desperate grab for the gun but his unsteady dive was sadly off-balance. Momentum carried him forwards as a bullet burned past his skull. He barrelled into O'Hara and their combined weight forced them both over, and then everything around him faded as his midriff exploded in agony. The Irishman thrashed wildly beneath him as he struggled to regain some sort of leverage. Peter lay limp and unresisting. His limbs lifeless and heavy as lead.

He couldn't move if he wanted to.

_Where was Neal?_

The bullet must have missed him.

_Dear God, let the bullet have missed him…_

They were trapped in a deadly gunfight with no immediate means of escape.

Eventually, O'Hara rolled him aside and Peter floundered helpless as a baby. He had no weapon and no advantage and the world was a kaleidoscope of misery. The darkness was descending in a thick black cloud no matter how he tried to fight against it. He looked up as O'Hara smiled down at him and pointed the gun at his head.

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris – 2012**_


	4. Chapter 4

**White Collar**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Four**_

She let herself into the empty house and was greeted by an ecstatic Satchmo. It seemed exactly as she'd left it this morning other than Peter's washed plate in the sink. _Not quite true._ Something _was_ different. Elizabeth walked across to the counter. There was an inkling of something she ought to have noticed and a trace of unease in the air.

A small frown puckered her forehead as she picked-up the empty packet of Tylenol. She turned it over between her fingertips as her sense of foreboding grew stronger. Peter was old-fashioned when it came to taking drugs, more than often to the point of being stupid. He drove her nuts by being stubborn and macho and preferring to ride out the pain.

_Not this morning. _

Not this time, apparently, and even worse, he'd kept something from her. She felt ill at ease and badly unsettled as she tried to work out what to do. _Drat the man, she was going to kill him_. Then she recalled how he'd looked when she'd left him. The ragged look of utter exhaustion and the careworn lines on his face.

_Oh, Peter._

She tried piecing the clues together but the answers remained vague and elusive. They'd missed each other on too many occasions and hadn't spent any real time together. As for the Tylenol – _why hadn't she noticed?_ It was remiss of her and horribly negligent. She racked her brains and sought to remember the last occasion when they'd shared a proper meal. _Not for days_. Their schedules had been crazily at odds and his long hours had made them virtual strangers. She was usually in bed and nearly asleep when he eventually made it home late.

_Ships in the night_… they'd been ships in the night, what with his case and her wretched symposium. El paced up and down by the counter and began to feel very afraid.

_He should have said_ – he hadn't _said _anything – and a wash of self-reproach flooded over her. He'd never so much as hinted there was anything remotely wrong. Her heart clenched with a twist of annoyance and love. _Well, duh, that was a given. _He was the kind of man who never saw a doctor, or at least, not until he was half dead. She shivered then, and hugged herself tightly. The house felt unnaturally quiet. Like it would be, perhaps, if she lived by herself… _like it would be if he wasn't here._

Not _all_ alone. Satchmo bumped her leg with his nose and then proceeded to whine softly up at her. El wiped her eyes and pulled herself together as she leant down and cupped his sweet face.

"It's okay – it'll _be _okay, fella. Right now, we need to go find your daddy. Then your mommy's going to yell and say some bad words, before she smacks him very hard around the head."

She reached in her purse for her cell phone and scanned through the list of messages. There were some from Yvonne, some from clients, but not the one she wanted to see. There was no point trying to call him again. She already knew he wouldn't answer. She scrolled through the list of contacts and stopped when she reached the right name.

It rang six times and then went through to Voicemail. Neal, it seemed, was also inaccessible. El fought back her growing irritation and then tried Clinton Jones instead.

"Mrs Burke, we heard you were in Detroit - " He answered her almost immediately. _Could it be her over-wrought imagination or did he sound slightly distraught?_ "I was just about to try calling you…"

"I'm at home, I didn't go to Detroit. What's wrong? What happened to Peter?"

A pause, and then Jones gave a palpable sigh as El almost screamed with frustration. She was starting to feel really frightened and paradoxically, strangely relieved. At least now, it was more than just a feeling. However bad, the situation was tangible. Not a fancy or weird figment of her strained imagination. It was real and she would be forced to deal.

"Please, Jones, just tell me the truth?"

"There was a shooting - "

"He was shot?"

"Not him. Caffrey."

"Neal was shot?"

Her world rocked and she was filled with alarm and more than a touch of impatience. Something must have gone horribly skewed judging by Jones' guarded approach. Neal was hurt – _even dead_ – she closed her eyes. She _so _did not want to go there. Perhaps she'd been right for all the wrong reasons and Peter, _her Peter_, was okay.

"There was a shooting and Neal was shot._ Neal was shot and not Peter_?" Her legs started to wobble precariously. She leaned up against the counter for a measure of support and took a deep and shuddering breath." I'm obviously missing something_. Where's my husband and is he_ _okay?"_

"We didn't know anything was wrong with him," Jones began speaking gently as he started to explain what had transpired. His earlier hesitancy was gone now as he seemed to recover his voice. "He didn't tell us there was any problem. There was a big undercover operation and well, Peter… he collapsed at the scene."

El swallowed hard and braced herself. Her brain was having difficulty processing. She felt like she was wading through molasses, as though she couldn't quite grasp what he said. Both of her hands were trembling as she clung onto her cell like a lifeline. Judging by the gravity of Clinton Jones' tone, the rest of the news was as bad.

"Peter collapsed, he collapsed at the scene?" She repeated his words very slowly. "I don't really understand any of this. You said at first there was a shooting?"

"The take-down was going ahead as planned but then everything started to go pear-shaped. Unfortunately, there was a shootout, and in the process Caffrey was hit. We neutralised things fairly rapidly but thought Peter had been caught in the crossfire. He took down one of the shooters and his quick thinking saved Caffrey's life."

"So Neal's alive?" El exhaled in sharp relief, grateful at least, for small mercies.

"Took a clean shot to the shoulder. He bled out some, but yeah, he's alive."

"Peter?"

"We don't know yet, I'm sorry. I'm coming over to fetch you. Diana followed them both to the hospital. I guess we'll find out more when we arrive."

"But he'll be okay?" it wasn't really a question, more a plea for some kind of confirmation. "He looked so pale and exhausted this morning, I had a feeling something wasn't right."

"The Paramedics mentioned some kind of shock, maybe even a severe infection. They refused to be more specific; said they couldn't tell without tests."

"Please hurry."

El barely heard his answer as she dashed upstairs to the bedroom. She threw a few bits and pieces together and re-packed her carry-on case. She didn't cry though her heart felt as heavy as lead. Tears seemed redundant and even irrelevant. They were something to be saved for later – when she knew the outcome to this.

Neal shot and Peter… _Peter_… she walked blindly across to the window. She should have taken greater note of her instincts, should have listened to the voice of her sixth sense. There was something, _there had always been something_, a nagging doubt, just a feeling. Deep down, she had known not to board her flight. To turn around and come home instead.

So close, she had been just a moment away of writing off the whole thing as crazy, but with hindsight, she was truly thankful and more than a little bit scared. If she'd checked in and gone through security… if she'd got on the aeroplane and left him. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome now, she might have been a world of hurt too late.

Looking down at her watch she was surprised to find it was far earlier than expected. That passionate goodbye in the hallway now seemed like a lifetime ago. God, the press of his mouth and the scent of him, and the feel of his strong arms around her. Her immediate arousal as his hand stroked her skin and the warmth of his breath in her hair. _If he left_…her lungs dry heaved painfully, _if he left, her whole body would miss him, _each nerve-fibre, atom and particle, and every single-damned-one of her cells.

Closing her eyes, she could almost hear him. The way his voice seemed to resonate through her. Sense his nearness and the imprint of his soul upon hers. The muscle-memory of his weight upon her flesh.

There'd been another time she'd almost lost him. Once when Keller had taken him hostage. She'd tried to explain things to Mozzie by telling him simply; - _'they worked.'_

Two words, _'they worked,'_ her and Peter. As if the statement could describe their relationship. They were almost severe in their austerity. Too brief to describe how she felt about the man. So terse and concise, they hurt.

But work they did, and in every damned way. Every single way she'd ever hoped or dreamed of. To lose him now was more than she could contemplate.

He was her life.

El bent her head and prayed.

* * *

The darkness had grown deep, a place of no escape, both profound and strangely alluring. Someone was talking, he thought it might be Diana, but she sounded too far away. They were moving him then and he cried out in pain and immediately felt ashamed for having done so. He tried to stay awake, tried to fight them, but the shadows engulfed him again.

_Someone else was in danger._

There was someone he ought to look out for.

A flood of memories rushed back like a torrent, making his heart race with terror. _There was a gun…_ he was sure he recalled a gun and he came-to with a hard jolt of fear. _Big mistake_ – his body closed in on him as he tried to thrash his way through the confusion, but the whole world went skidding away from him and he descended back down into chaos.

_"Stay with me…"_ the voice was insistent. There were hands on him, shaking him gently. _Had to fight, had to try and remember…_Peter knew he was running out of time. _Shots were fired…_ it had all gone horribly wrong. The thought he might have botched things made him frantic. He struggled back through the layers of agony which threatened to tear him away. A sudden jolt and then he was off the ground being lifted onto some kind of gurney. The pain made him flail back against them but the handling brought a brief flash of clarity, and the sharp scrape and stab of a needle helped clear the fog in his head.

_Him and Neal, they were undercover. The Irish Mob… and things had gone pear-shaped. There were shots fired and…oh God, there was O'Hara, pointing a weapon at Neal._

He remembered trying to cover the distance and lurching drunkenly into the Irishman, but he couldn't recall if he'd made it in time, or if he'd knocked the gun out of the way. A series of images assaulted him like the blinding flash of a camera. He did his best to cling onto them mentally before the drugs stole them away. _An explosion of noise in his eardrums and the acrid smell of the cordite, he'd called out a belated warning, but it had come a lethal heartbeat too late. _

He was falling, spinning in circles, as something gave way deep inside him. There was pain and the certain knowledge of death as O'Hara leered down into his face. Neal had been hit, he was sure of it, with a hard knot of icy conviction. The confirmation was clear in the Irishman's smirk as he lifted the gun once again.

The world had been sucked away from him then, disappearing into some kind of vacuum. An extreme rush of agony and nausea swept away on a wave of despair. Neal was dead _and El_… she would be left alone. He regretted having lied to her this morning. He only hoped she would guess how sorry he was. That she might forgive him one day.

He'd closed his eyes and blocked out O'Hara. Shut his mind to the bastard's gloating. There were better ways to spend his last seconds then staring at the Irishman's face.

The pain and the noise and the shouting had gone and he seemed to be floating in limbo. Peter watched as El gave him a radiant smile and waited at the base of the stairs. She grasped hold of his tie and pulled him closer, her soft body warm and pliant. She was everything and more he'd ever wanted, as she pressed her mouth hard against his.

Everything and more…

_His entire life._

He tried so hard not to leave her.

But he was sliding down into blackness again and everything was fading away.

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2012**_


	5. Chapter 5

**White Collar**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Five**_

Neal hated the incessant beeping which impinged on the edge of his consciousness. He reached out to try and mute the source of the noise but the pain made him hiss in surprise. _What the…_ he clenched his teeth and rode out the starburst as the tearing in his shoulder settled down again. The annoying beeping carried on regardless and eventually he opened his eyes.

_Not his alarm clock or even his cell phone. _

Just the familiar and unwelcome smell of hospital. He made an effort to gather his resources and make a quick scan of his surroundings. It always made sense to be well-prepared, to be ready and on top of his game. There was a night-light providing a soft muted glow which made the room a tableau of shadows. More lights flashed red and green from the monitor array which flanked the head of his bed.

"Take it easy," a pleasant-faced nurse smiled gently as she checked the IV stand beside him. "I'm just setting up another transfusion bag and then I'll get you something for that pain."

Neal blinked up at the bag in alarm. At the crimson liquid, dark and viscous. Plastic tubing snaked down from the fresh bag of blood to a cannula attached to his vein. _Just swell, a blood transfusion…_ Neal turned his head on the pillow. His stomach gave a flip at the thought of it and forced him to look away.

_Shot_ - well that was a given. He recognised the ragged ache of a bullet wound. The sense of floating was slightly more alarming as was the lassitude which dragged at his eyelids. It would be easier to try and blot out the pain and succumb to the beckoning darkness.

_Fight it._

The insistence wouldn't leave him alone. The two words were an urgent mantra. They repeated like a gramophone record with the needle stuck in a groove.

_Fight it._

It was easier said than done. His shoulder ached and he felt pretty awful. A feeble attempt to sit up a bit higher sent him reeling back with a gasp. _Bullets hurt – _the memory was brutal and stripped him of breath for a moment. Beads of sweat burst out on his upper lip as his muscles protested in pain.

He was tired - _more than tired, he was exhausted_ - his treacherous body trying to tow him back under, but the latent sense of panic was stronger. He was so_ not_ in control of the game. Everything was kind of chaotic and he was missing too many vital elements. He needed to get a grip on his memories and fill in the blanks in his head. _Concentrate Neal. _He forced his mind to focus and gradually, it started to come back to him. The surge of sudden panic subsided and was replaced with a sense of relief.

It was okay, he gave a shuddering sigh. For once, he really _didn't_ have to worry. He was legit, so no call for quick thinking. _There was no need to lie to save his skin._ He could relax and let them take care of him, he realised with a sudden rush of thankfulness. There was no call to study the fire exit plan to work out a speedy escape.

_Maybe Peter was right after all and there was something to be said for honesty_? Telling the truth was a darned sight simpler and avoided a whole lot of stress. He smiled fleetingly, a little self-derisively, as he watched the strip of sky through the window blind. The thought seemed a tad hypocritical when his life had been a castle of lies.

A past based on deception and sleight-of-hand, using his wits and quite exceptional brilliance. As though _he_ was the puppet-master and the whole thing was some sort of game. He was quicker and smarter than all of them, better looking and more persuasive. He knew all the moves and spoke all the right lines and could employ all the tricks of the trade.

Until Peter Burke decided to stop him and the cards refused to fall in his favour. They had tumbled and left him wide open to the tender mercies of fate.

Currently, Peter was pulling the strings, and right now, it suited Neal to let him, although one day he might be tempted to sever them and take control of his life once again. _One day…_ he was oddly averse to the thought, so much for the great puppet-master, but events had kind of swept him along with them and his life was undoubtedly changed. After everything, all the gloss and the glitter, he had crossed swords with a worthy adversary. Peter Burke, his persistent nemesis. Peter Burke, his unforeseen friend.

_Peter… _

His reverie shattered like a pane of glass and the jagged shards splintered around him. He jerked his head on the pillow and felt them slice into his flesh. The counterfeit op at the nightclub_…_ _had to think, he was tripping on morphine._ O'Hara had pulled a gun on him and it had all gone to hell in a heartbeat. Something was wrong, so badly wrong, that his adrenalin began to climb through the ceiling. His memories started unravelling like a gigantic ball of string.

First the lateness and secondly the coffee, and then there were the frowning silences. The little clues Peter wasn't himself which should have given the game away. For a second as they'd waited in the alleyway, Neal had glanced at him and been startled. The reflecting light from the gunmetal sky had made him appear gaunt and grey.

It got worse as they bargained with O'Hara, although Peter played his part manfully, but Neal had known with a sudden, cold urgency, he was struggling to stay on his feet. He had called it then and signalled Diana even though they were both still in danger. Something visceral, maybe a gut feeling or hunch, had told him Peter needed help there and then.

There had been shooting and a whole lot of shouting. He had made a mad scramble for cover. He recalled the sharp stench of the cordite and Peter calling his name. _Agony and difficulty breathing_. There was something he ought to be doing, but the wrenching pain had ripped the world sideways until he'd woken again.

"That really isn't a good idea, Mister Caffrey," the nurse shook her head reprovingly as she eased him back down onto the pillow. "Any more smart moves like that one and you're going to undo all our good work. That bullet nearly punctured your artery and the wound needs some time to heal."

"You don't understand," Neal pushed back against her weakly. "I have to go…"

"No, _you don't understand_," she said, firmly. "At the moment there's no going anywhere. Not until your doctors say otherwise. You wouldn't even make it as far as the door, so for now, you're staying right here."

Clenching his fists, he ground his teeth against the stomach clenching wash of dizziness. Some deep breathing took care of the nausea which eased after a minute or two.

She smiled at him gently. "Better?"

"Depends on your definition."

"Apparently you nearly bled out on us, so take it from me, this is good."

"Nearly bled out, huh?"

Neal considered her words and couldn't help a slight shiver. No wonder he felt weirdly spacey as though he was suddenly weightless. And not in a good way either. The light-headedness was highly unpleasant. Not unlike the room-spinning sensation after he'd drunk too much wine. The nurse gave him a spoonful of crushed ice to suck and it made him feel slightly better. Struggling not to show his impatience, he tried a more prudent approach.

"I need to find out about my partner. He didn't look very good last I saw him. He would have been brought in the same time as me. Please can you help me, his name's Peter Burke?"

* * *

It couldn't be, _this _couldn't be happening. El raised her head in mute denial. This was America, the twenty-first century, and people didn't die because of this. Not these days – thanks to modern medicine – it was so commonplace and simple to take care of. People shouldn't die… it wasn't fatal… but apparently,_ some_ people still did.

_Some people…_

She looked up at the waiting doctor who continued to regard her gravely. _Some people, but please God, not her Peter._ It was almost impossible to contemplate. They were going to have to find a way to save him. She refused to lose him like this.

"I still don't understand what made him so ill or why it happened so quickly. My husband's an FBI agent. He's in good health, he keeps himself fit."

The doctor sighed as though he'd heard it before; "I assume he _was_ having symptoms. Most people dismiss them as indigestion or maybe a stomach bug. Especially busy men like your husband who usually do their best to ignore them. They usually take an antacid and hope it will all go away."

"But it didn't."

"No, sadly it didn't. In your husband's, as in most of the cases I've seen, it made things a great deal more serious. It's dangerous to ignore these symptoms or stow them away on the back-burner. The prognosis can deteriorate rapidly and easily get out of hand. An appendectomy is usually straightforward when the patient presents nice and early, but once an appendix perforates then it becomes a whole different ballgame."

"He had emergency surgery -"

"I performed an open laparotomy and cleaned out all the obvious infection. Unfortunately, some pretty nasty pathogens have found their way into his bloodstream. Your husband has already been compromised and he's fighting a life-threatening sepsis. I'm afraid he has peritonitis. Peter is gravely ill."

_Life-threatening_.

Tears pricked her eyelids but she refused to give in and start crying. She clenched her fists under the desktop as a stab of grief tightened her chest. If only he'd said something to her, if he wasn't so all-fired stubborn, then she would have marched him straight to a doctor and they could have avoided this mess.

If only.

It was horribly easy to go down that route, too easy and self-defeating. There were a lot of things she would have done differently, far too many variations on a theme. The simple truth was they'd both been too busy. Both absorbed with their various projects. The symposium had taken up all of her time and Peter had been immersed in his case.

Nonetheless, she must have known on some level. How else could she explain her premonition? A sense of something bad on the horizon which had caused her to head home again. _Just a feeling…_ it had just been a feeling. An uncanny warning of danger. Somehow she'd known Peter needed her and that she shouldn't set foot on that plane.

"What's going to happen?"

Her voice was steady, if low and intense, and she supposed it was a slightly odd question, but she needed a straightforward answer to help deal with what lay ahead.

"A lot now depends on Peter and his ability to fight the infection. We'll be monitoring his response very closely and supporting him through the next few days."

"Supporting?"

"He'll be on life-support," the surgeon regarded her frankly. "His immune system needs all the help it can get to defeat this type of infection. The main things we need to supervise are liver and kidney function. He'll be observed very closely for any signs of organ failure."

"Will he live?"

"We're doing everything we possibly can. He's a strong man and the odds are in his favour. I must however stress to you one more time, your husband is seriously ill. We'll have to see how he responds to the treatment. He's on high-dose IV antibiotics and other drugs to help deal with the sepsis. We'll be checking his blood-work on a regular basis to make sure they're having an effect."

_He's a strong man and the odds are in his favour…_

The other words seemed to blur around this sentence. Seizing them, she clung on tightly and hugged them close to her chest.

**_TBC_**

* * *

**_Lisa Paris - 2012_**


	6. Chapter 6

**White Collar**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Six**_

When he woke up again, he wasn't alone. Elizabeth stood near the window. She was motionless, almost unnaturally still, as pale and quiet as a ghost. He started to speak but fear closed his throat and slowly constricted his windpipe. Pain blossomed and uncurled inside him, taking root deep in his chest.

_El would never leave Peter alone._

He knew that more surely than anything. The world seemed to spiral away from him. It must mean Peter was dead.

"El - "

The word was little more than a croak and must have conveyed his terror. He was emotionally frail, as transparent as glass, but god help him, he didn't care.

She snapped to attention and focused on him, her eyes flooding with swift understanding. Shaking her head in denial, she moved to the chair by his bed.

"He's okay for the moment. Still fighting. It was touch and go earlier this morning…" she paused for a second and shivered. "They say his blood pressure's a cause for concern but his temperature's gone down a bit."

"That's good, right?" his throat unclenched slowly. "Means the antibiotics must be working."

"I suppose so," she answered him, listlessly. "They kicked me out to take some x-rays. Something about his respiratory rate and running more tests on his lungs."

He studied her face very carefully, unsure how to broach the next subject, but he was filled with a horrible feeling of guilt and the words really had to be said. "It's my fault, I could have prevented this. I knew something was up with Peter. I should have, _could have_ spoken to Diana… could have done more to look out for him."

"Oh, sweetie - "

He swallowed at her use of the endearment but as of now he didn't deserve it. Feeling wretched, he pressed on regardless, still determined to front-up and have his say. _And afterwards…_ whispered a tiny voice… _what if afterwards she can't forgive you?_

He would have to cross that bridge later, work out his options in a colder light of day.

"Elizabeth, I'm really sorry," he shook his head and spoke hurriedly. There was a very good chance he might lose his nerve if she spoke to him kindly again. "You have every right to be angry. I guessed when he turned down the coffee that something was way out of sync. It's so damned obvious with hindsight. Usually he can't get enough of it. I should have said something, forced him to tell me. He _never_ says no to a cup."

"Neal, stop - "

"Whenever you're away, he gets cranky, but this time, it was a lot worse than usual. I didn't notice he was ill until later, and by then he was really in pain." He was faltering over the story, uncertain and almost incoherent. If this was a con he would be busted and the old _Slick Neal_ would hang his head in shame.

The old _Slick Neal_ – he wondered for a second or two if that man still remotely existed. It was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope and seeing things further away. The old Neal wouldn't be lying here with a ragged hole torn in his shoulder. He would have silver-tongued his way out of trouble, and then made the deal before strolling off jauntily. He would have played O'Hara to perfection and then walked away with everything intact. Instead he was feeling wretched and rambling like an incoherent schoolboy, trying to make weak excuses to Elizabeth while still missing far too much of his own blood.

He felt horrible, and his shoulder throbbed, but in the scheme of things it was nothing. Judging by the anguish in Elizabeth's eyes she was hurting a lot more than him.

"If only I'd pressed a little harder…"

"But you didn't – _I didn't_ – nobody did."

Her brief reply didn't help things. It only served to make him feel guiltier. _Not so hard, as it turned out._ With hindsight, he should have tackled Peter head-on, in-spite of the taciturn silences. Spoken to Jones or most certainly Diana and persuaded them to cancel the op. It would have caused a whole lot of trouble and Peter would have definitely been pissed at him, but he could have charmed his way out of that one and maybe Peter would still be alive.

_Still alive._

Actually, he _was _still alive. Neal felt cold at the frightening implication. The situation was becoming so desperate, he was behaving as though Peter was dead. He already knew how he felt about that. He'd been through it on at least two occasions. Once with Keller and once with the Armagnac and it had seriously messed with his head. Peter was strong and safe and secure. He was everything Neal's life wasn't. A pillar of strength, a port in a storm, and he wasn't supposed to die.

"I should have done," he said dully. "Should have ratted him out to Diana. He pushed himself and I could have prevented it. I screwed up, this is all my fault.

"Will you_ please _just shut-up for a second," Elizabeth gripped his arm painfully. "All of this – what happened, it's nobody's fault. _You're not the only one who should have known._" She closed her eyes against a series of flashbacks and took a breath before continuing her story. The words caught in her throat for a moment. They were almost too painful to say. "I think in my heart, I knew something was wrong even though he didn't want me to worry. So much so, that when I got to the airport, I just couldn't check-in for my flight."

"You didn't go?"

"No, I didn't go. I knew something was wrong, don't ask how, but I couldn't leave him. I tried calling and then I went back to the house, but by then, it was far too late."

Her remorse put everything in perspective and Neal could have cried at the absurdity. They were twisted around with feelings of guilt and both of them blaming themselves.

"He should have told us."

Neal was unexpectedly weak, as all the pent-up emotion drained out of him. The residue left behind was more distressing. He felt hollowed out and frightened instead. El reached for him in sudden understanding and the warmth of her hand was reassuring. They clung onto each other for comfort as her fingers threaded through his.

"Yes, he should," her voice was low. "He must have been in pain for a day or two. Knowing Peter, he didn't want to create any fuss. He probably hoped it would all go away."

"The window was closing on the counterfeit case. We didn't have much time to reel in O'Hara."

"He knew how hard I'd worked on the symposium. He didn't want to stop me going to Detroit."

They froze and stared at each other, both filled with a sense of black humour. It was almost amusing in a bittersweet way, if things weren't quite so dreadfully bleak.

"No one's fault," Neal spoke carefully. "A stupid lack of communication. Throw in a little bad timing and you have a recipe for disaster."

_No one's fault_ - the irony hurt him. It was achingly, horribly funny, and a given if Peter was here with them now, he would surely be blaming himself. Neal closed his eyes briefly. How he longed to be a part of that scenario. To hear the measured tones of Peter's voice and see that slightly rueful look on his face. There was not a hint of false pride in the man, and he was never remotely vainglorious. If he did something wrong, then it bothered him and he always apologised.

That sort of thing didn't happen much in Neal's world where mistakes could break a man's standing, and names were built on reputation, as though part of a complex game.

_No one's fault_ – Neal couldn't help shivering. The three words were not very comforting. They left him feeling hollow and hurting. Especially the way things stood now.

It probably hadn't made any difference and O'Hara would have pulled a gun regardless. He would doubtless be lying on a slab in the morgue if Peter hadn't stepped in the way. Neal shivered as the take-down replayed in his head and a stab of pain rippled through his shoulder. _If Peter hadn't crashed into O'Hara_ – then they both would have died in that nightclub. As of now, he was sure he owed Peter his life, but the knowledge didn't wash the grief away.

* * *

Somebody, most likely Mozzie, had brought her a big bowl of yellow tulips. Their drooping heads were a splash of sunshine, bright and golden as she walked into the room. El stopped and her breath caught a little. They looked out of place on the table. Their intensity hurt like a bruise on her soul bearing in mind how broken she felt.

The house seemed to be waiting for something. It felt unnaturally quiet and neglected. The counters were bare and devoid of any dishes and dust motes hung in the air. Nobody was here to greet her. Not even the frantic rush of doggy paw-steps. No plumed tail beating against her legs as Satchmo was staying with June.

She placed her purse down on the sofa and walked across to the window. The sky was low and brooding. It hung overcast and heavy with lead. Like everything, _every_ single thing around her, the air seemed charged and ominously threatening, as though the clouds were reflecting her feelings and in sympathy with her mood. Her nerves prickled with a hint of presentiment. Even the atmosphere appeared to press down on her. This house was usually her sanctuary, but it felt oddly unwelcoming today.

The afternoon got steadily darker and she made herself small on the window-seat. The glass was smooth and cool against her forehead. She closed her eyes and wished she could cry.

After a while, her muscles started aching, and the house got gradually colder. She supposed she ought to switch on the heating, but somehow, she just didn't feel inclined. There was nothing… no grief, no emotions. She was still and dull, as if she'd been blunted. A huge hole had opened up in front of her. She felt hollowed out and empty inside.

Four days since her aborted trip to Detroit.

Four days of waiting and hoping.

He'd been holding his own, had been stable… but then today, everything had changed.

She hadn't missed their slanting looks of consternation. Something was wrong with his oxygen levels. There were more tests and red lights flashing, and a group of doctors gathered around his bed.

Eventually, they ushered her out of the room and someone had explained to her gently. They were worried he wasn't responding. That he was on the brink of mass organ failure. There was nothing she could do and they needed the space. _Best to leave for a couple of hours._ She should go home, eat some food, take a shower… and then they would call her back in good time.

She'd refused, of course, point blank refused them.

No way was she going to leave him.

And then the doctor had told her quite bluntly, they needed her out of the way. After that, it became a nightmare, as the doctor reached for his pager. He met her eyes as he answered the crash-call which came from her husband's room.

El hugged her knees closer and shivered. _From her husband's room…_ _Peter was dying._ Her lips quivered as something tore into her and crushed the hard knot in her chest. She'd left the hospital several hours later and ridden home in a taxi, somehow reluctant to turn the key in the door and step into the silent house. The place was filled with too many memories and there were too many sad ghosts to haunt her. If she focused her mind and wished hard enough, then for a moment, she could imagine him here.

_Closing her eyes, she breathed in his skin, and felt the warmth of his arms wrapped around her. Leaning into his touch, she pressed her mouth against his throat as his fingers moved down her spine…_

He was gone in a fleeting second and she was left on her own in the darkness. Something shattered and broke inside her and for the first time, El started to cry. The tears when they came were unstoppable and her sobs were both painful and wrenching. As though her heartache was overwhelming and the agony would never go away.

People had always described her as strong. Free of spirit and independent. Her folks had been surprised and even slightly relieved when Peter Burke had stolen her heart. She had known from the moment she met him. He was everything her soul had been searching for. Steadfast and decent, so intrinsically good, quite simply, he made her complete.

She had never felt so lost and alone in her life and that much vaunted strength had deserted her. The thought of a future without him frankly plunged her into despair. His job had always been dangerous. The threats were very real and she accepted that, but somehow, she'd always had faith in him. He was smart enough not to take stupid risks.

_Oh God, Peter…_

The smartest guy she'd ever met, all the more so, because he didn't trumpet it. Behind the kind and almost awkward modesty, he possessed a bright and cutting-edge mind. She'd always loved his intelligence and found it amazingly sexy. He had a knack of seeing things quickly and making them turn out right.

But in the end, he was only flesh and blood, and just as vulnerable as the next man. It was cruel and supremely ironic to lose him because of this. A so-called straightforward condition which most people dismissed and took for granted. How could something so apparently simple be responsible for taking Peter's life?

_Why the hell hadn't he told her?_

The question remained indecipherable.

She could rationalise his motives as much as she liked and go over every agonising detail, but the fact he had been trying to do the right thing failed to make the answers easier to swallow. Peter didn't have a suicide wish and he was never irresponsible or reckless. If he'd realised, then he would have moved heaven and earth just to save her from this heartache and pain. El gave a sobbing, bitter laugh. _If he'd known_ then none of this would have happened. He would have undergone a routine surgery. He would be here with her today.

_He wasn't._

Instead, she was here on her own. She laid her throbbing head against the windowpane. There was no easy way of dealing with this. No magic wand would ever make things right.

The doorbell was a harsh intruder, cutting through her swathe of grief and the darkness. El tensed, her cramped muscles protesting as she prayed the visitor would go away. She didn't want anybody with her, couldn't bear the thought of dealing with their sympathy. It rang again, loud and insistent, and then she heard a soft click.

It could only be one of three people. She swung her legs down from the window seat. Of the three, only Peter had an actual key, but the other two seemed to come and go at will. She moved across the room to the front of the house still reluctant to turn on the light switch. The silhouette of the man in the doorway was one that she recognised. Her voice was cracked and hoarse from crying, but she still felt a strong flash of concern for him. He'd lost too much blood to be walking around and he really shouldn't be here.

"What are you doing out of the hospital?"

Neal closed the front door awkwardly behind him and advanced further into the living room. He paused as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and then hovered a little hesitantly. El knew she could have been nicer but her need to be alone was overwhelming. It wasn't the most welcoming greeting but good manners weren't high on her list.

"I had to come - "

"There's no need," she interrupted shortly. "You shouldn't have. You're not well enough to go walkabout."

"Elizabeth - "

"They sent me home." She was gabbling away like an idiot and trying to avoid the inevitable. "Thought I'd maybe grab a shower… and then before I knew it, the whole afternoon was gone. Guess I should get back there again."

"Guess you should," Neal sounded peculiar as he took a more assured step towards her. His movements were a little uneven due to the heavy brace on his arm. "I think you should leave here immediately and take the cab waiting outside."

"Neal?"

El felt her heart miss a beat and the room seemed to waver around her. The sense of expectation flooded back again along with an awareness of dread. _Ghosts…_ she'd spent too much time summoning them and now her fears had come back to haunt her. Everything stilled as her legs started shaking and a surge of blood rushed to her head. She looked up with mute enquiry and repeated his name once again.

_"Neal…"_

"It's okay," he stopped in front of her and rested his good hand on her shoulder, looking down with a face of sudden remorse as he picked up on the source of her terror. "The hospital's been trying to reach you - your cell must be switched off, or something. They pulled him back, El, he's turned the corner. The doctor's think Peter will live."

_**TBC**_

* * *

**_Lisa Paris - 2012_**


	7. Chapter 7

**White Collar**

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**NB: - _Many thanks to everyone who took the time to read and review this story, especially the brave Guest reviewer for Part Six, who mentioned she'd been in a similar situation to El. I was truly moved by your courage and honesty... my sincere best wishes to you!_**

* * *

_**Just a Feeling**_

_Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…_

* * *

_**Part Seven**_

Peter shifted uneasily and placed his hand on his belly. Although he'd been home for nearly a week now, he remained incredibly sore. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to try and catch up with his emails. One thing had led to another and he'd been sitting here for more than two hours. He got to his feet very carefully, catching his breath as he leant on the table. The doctors had warned him it was going to take time, but he hated feeling like this.

_Like this…_ he forced his spine a little straighter. He was damned lucky to be feeling anything. Since his recovery it was glaringly obvious he was fortunate to still be alive.

The doctors had been pretty blunt with him and hadn't pulled any punches. There was a difference between courage and stupidity and he had well and truly crossed the line. He hadn't meant to – it was a no-brainer. It was a stomach bug or something vaguely similar. If he'd known, there was no-way he would have left things. He hadn't planned on causing all this pain.

_Not his own._ He was able to deal with that and even the debilitating weakness, and in a way, he kind of deserved it. He'd messed up horribly badly and been forced to pay the piper. The real problem was the knowledge he'd been an idiot, to say nothing of the crippling sense of guilt.

Elizabeth hadn't blamed him for anything. She'd been patient and unfailingly caring. Nonetheless, there was something, perhaps a hint of reserve, and he wasn't totally blind. The fact that she loved him was never in doubt, it was there in every touch, in every gesture, but Peter knew how much she'd been suffering. He could still see the grief in her eyes.

Neal had been rather more frank with him. Peter winced – as if it was needed. The heavy arm-brace he wore was a wordless reproach, even worse than a slap in the face. The main gist of it was he'd been selfish. By not speaking, he'd placed them in danger. It didn't matter if he'd thought his priority had been trying to wrap-up the case.

He sighed and straightened all the way up. It was tempting to stay hunched over. Aching muscles protested tenderly and he couldn't help grunting out loud. He sneaked a sheepish look at the time. At least an hour past his next scheduled painkillers. The doctors had told him to keep taking them until he could walk with no discomfort.

"Have you been sitting there all afternoon?"

Peter jumped at the unforeseen intrusion and then cursed at his hasty response to it. Sudden movements could still take his breath away and felt like a knife in his gut.

"Not entirely," he answered defensively. "I forgot to keep an eye on the clock."

"Obviously," Neal sounded sarcastic as he made his way through to the kitchen. "The whole _bent double_ thing gave it away."

"Nice."

Peter pulled a face behind Neal's back and glanced longingly across at the sofa. It looked soft and awfully tempting right now, but after all, he still had some pride. _How the hell had he missed hearing Neal come in?_ The man was positively cat-footed. Either that or he was still so out of it, he'd failed to notice the key in the door.

"Here," his pissed-off looking nursemaid wandered back from the kitchen and held two pills and a glass out in front of him. "Better take these before Elizabeth gets home. It wouldn't do for her to see you in pain."

"I didn't hear you come in, where's Satchmo?" Peter swallowed the tablets obediently, and did his best to change the subject.

Neal shifted his jacket off awkwardly but shook his head at Peter's gesture of help. "It's okay, I can manage. He's staying for a sleepover at June's." He paused and looked down at the laptop and then scowled pointedly at Peter. "Let me guess, you've been working solidly ever since I left the house?"

"Maybe," he was feeling slightly truculent. "Its okay, Florence Nightingale, there's no need to read the riot act. It's not as if you caught me doing push-ups or getting ready for a ten mile jog."

"Not funny - _so_ not funny," Neal still wasn't happy. "You've been sitting there at the computer for hours. When I came in, you were wavering all over the place. You looked like you could barely stand up straight."

"I was not wavering – _I do not waver._ I've been going stir crazy with boredom. I asked Jones to send me over some files. I have a lot of catching up to do."

"Fine," Neal glared at him sarcastically. "Wipe yourself out, why don't you? Put us all through another round of torment when you eventually collapse with exhaustion."

"Neal - "

"Don't _'Neal'_ me, Peter. Have you looked at yourself… _really seen yourself in the mirror? _You couldn't possibly be any paler, not unless you were - "

He stopped, aghast, pressing his good hand to his mouth, expression shocked and positively stricken. You didn't have to be a genius to figure the next word which lay between them broken and unsaid.

"_Dead,"_ Peter rounded off softly. "Not unless I was dead."

"Do you know, do you even realise…" Neal choked and turned away from him, shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion. He paused and tried to pull himself together, but his next words were fractured with pain. "…how close El came to being a widow?"

"I'm sorry I put everyone through this," Peter spoke to him really gently. "But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. _I'm here,_ Neal, and everything's okay."

Neal continued to stare at him and his Adam's apple worked noiselessly. For a brief second, any pretext of a mask had slipped, and his eyes were naked with agony. If there was ever any issue – any shadow of a doubt – that their relationship had become more than professional, then the question had been answered in that instant and Peter wasn't left with any reservations.

Neal looked lost, almost panic-stricken… a million light-years from his usual demeanour. All the laconic self-assurance had been stripped from his face as though it had melted away. It spoke volumes – more than a shed load of words – and Peter felt a glimmer of enlightenment. Sometimes life handed you a golden opportunity, and this was one, right on a plate. There were occasions when he'd looked in the mirror and wondered what the hell he was doing, filled with qualms and self-recriminations, as he considered his alliance with Neal.

He'd heard the whispers that flew in some quarters. He wasn't blind nor was he an idiot. _Once a conman always a conman._ Neal was playing him and he was a fool. There were times, when he was tired or dispirited, that he worried about Neal's motives. The U-boat fiasco, for instance, when Keller had taken El. Was he merely a means to an end for Neal or an amusing and diverting little stopgap. Perhaps an opportune get-out-of-jail card until his sentence was finally done?

Byron's treasury plate, for instance. Peter knew in his heart, Neal still had it. Would he ever be able to resist the allure of returning to his old way of life?

The truth was, had he ever really left it?

It was back to the ten million dollar question. The one which itched like a burr beneath the saddle and kept him awake at night.

He sighed; _not if he could help it_. He was still convinced Neal was worth saving. Who knew what the future held for them both, but the truth lay in moments like this. Neal's fear was strong, almost tangible and Peter felt bowed under by the weight of it. It was more than a sense of duty and a warmth began to spread through his veins. He wasn't a fool, he was an optimist who had seen through the cracks in the hard shell, and if friendship was a basis for redemption, then surely Neal stood every chance?

"It's okay," buoyed-up with sudden assurance, Peter took a step forwards. He gripped hold of Neal's good shoulder with a firm and steadying hand. "You can't shake me, you should know that by now. I'm always going to be right behind you. I'll be _here,_ buddy, just where I've always been. Ready and waiting to catch you."

Neal leaned into his grasp for a second or two and then pulled away abruptly. The alley-cat look faded out of his eyes and gradually his shoulders relaxed. They were guys and they didn't do the hugging thing much, other than in times of heightened emotion, but this time, the contact helped both of them and the air of tension faded and died.

"To catch me, huh? Well, that figures. You always were my pain in the ass."

"Actually, I prefer the term nemesis." Peter shook his head with mock-dignity, and gave Neal a few seconds to recover. "And while we're sort of on the subject of pain, how's your shoulder today?"

"Divert and distract?" Neal smirked at him. "Oh, Peter, by now, you should really know better. But in the spirit of playing along with you, thanks for asking, it feels pretty good."

"Who's diverting?" Elizabeth came through the door and placed her purse down on the table.

"Peter's trying," Neal gave her a welcoming grin and headed for the coffee machine.

"Very trying," El agreed heartily, after closely scrutinising her husband. Once she appeared satisfied with what she observed, she walked across and gave him a kiss. "But he can be distracting as well."

"TMI," Neal called over his shoulder. "I'll leave you two kids to make nice."

* * *

"Do we need to?" Peter looked at El searchingly, as he steered her through into the living room. "Hon, I wish you'd yell at me or something, _before_ we start to make nice, I mean."

His feeble joke made her smile a little and eased some of the strain from her features. They sat facing one another on the sofa and he refused to let go of her hands.

"Peter - "

"El, please talk to me? You and I – we never have any secrets. It's time to get this out in the open. There's clearly something weighing on your mind."

She sighed a little and relinquished her hand and then reached up to stroke his cheek tenderly. Fingers lingering, she traced around his jaw line, and then allowed them to stray to his lips. He closed his eyes and remained very still. Something told him she needed the contact. Although sensuous and somehow reassuring, her touch was as light as silk.

They had always been very tactile and had clung together all through his recovery, but in some way he knew this was different, like a reaffirmation of life.

"_I nearly lost you." _

The words hung between them. Soft and bruised, a non-accusatory indictment. Reaching up, he caught hold of her fingertips and then brought them to his mouth for a kiss. Here it was, then. The gentlest form of reproach. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it. He'd acted with the best of intentions but the whole world had imploded around them.

"I'm so sorry."

_What else could he say to her?_

Words seemed surplus and superficial. He loved her, he would lay down his life for her, and yet he had put her through hell. If he could undo so much as an atom of her pain, he'd do whatever it took in a heartbeat, but sadly it wasn't as simple as that. Peter knew he'd betrayed her trust.

"You shouldn't be," her beautiful eyes were awash with tears but she blinked them back and looked at him candidly. "That morning, before I left for the airport, I knew something wasn't right."

"El - "

"No, please let me finish. You looked so pale and exhausted. I told myself I was imagining things… that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn't, and somehow I knew it. I never should have got into that taxi. I had a premonition you were in danger. I sensed it here in my heart."

"Oh, honey," he pulled her towards him. "It's not your fault, I was an idiot. It was a fluke – no-one could have predicted it. It was me who messed up, big-time."

"Yes, you did," she said bluntly and laid her head on his shoulder. "There's no denying you should have told me, but then again, I should have trusted my instincts. At the end of the day, I'm your wife."

"Thank God for that," he kissed the top of her head. "This goes to show I'm hopeless without you. I'm so sorry for the hurt I caused you. I'll never do it again."

"_Not ever,"_ she twisted around fiercely. "Peter, you have to promise me. We both took things too much for granted. We must never, ever keep any secrets, however insignificant they might seem."

He looked at her solemnly, "I promise you, sweetheart, on my honour. I won't hide stuff to stop you from worrying. It was the wrong thing for the best of intentions, and believe me, I learned my lesson. "

Twinkling up at him, some of the pain left her eyes, and he was profoundly relieved to see the back of it. She snuggled into him very gently, still mindful of how fragile he was.

"That's good, _very good,_ and definitely wise. You see, I've reached a kind of conclusion. When it comes to you, I might even be psychic. Perhaps if I practise hard enough I could learn to read your mind."

"Psychic, huh?" he took a moment to digest and then shook his head and grinned with mock chagrin. "Oh, boy, now I'm really in trouble. You know, a part of me always wondered if maybe I married a witch."

"Hey," she gave him a gentle tap. "From now on you need to be careful. If you do anything to upset me then I might turn you into a frog."

"I seem to remember that story," Peter pulled her a little bit closer. "As I recall, the frog got lucky and ended up with a kiss."

"Like this?"

Her lips were amazingly sweet and he melted as she lingered against him.

"Like that," he whispered softly, "but I'm afraid you lucked-out on the prince."

"You can keep him," she leaned in and kissed him again. "I already won the lottery."

"That makes two of us,"he said, somewhat roughly, "Hon, I don't know what I did to deserve you. For the record, I'd be happy to be your frog. I love being under your spell. Now please, can we put this behind us, and do like Neal says and make nice?"

"How nice?" she slanted her eyes at him.

He tightened his hold on her, "Neal's here."

"I see," she answered somewhat mournfully. "Quite nice as opposed to _very _nice."

* * *

Much later, as she turned the bedroom lights out, she spent some minutes watching him sleeping. He looked calmer and vastly more comfortable for the first time since leaving the hospital. Sighing a little, she reached out a hand and brushed his hair back from his forehead. In many ways it still felt like a miracle to have him lying here at her side.

Talking it through some had helped her. There was no doubt her mood had lightened. She'd been harbouring a deep sense of terror for what seemed like an eternity. Peter was safe – he was here. _It was over._ She took a breath and the nightmare diminished. She would not be left broken and grieving, or forced to carry on all alone. _She had been so sure_… just for a moment… that fate had meant to steal him away from her, and in leaving that morning, she'd failed some sort of test, and the penalty had been Peter's life.

_Too high._

It was far too high a price to pay.

El recalled the afternoon she'd left the hospital and a sense of deja-vu made her shiver. Even now, she was shocked at how fragile it seemed and how close they had come to the edge. There had been something, a strange feeling of displacement, like being on the verge of waking. The layers had been shifting around her as though she'd been trapped in a dream. He'd been within a hairsbreadth of dying. She knew that more strongly than anything. For a brief instant she'd been aware of him beside her, and felt the light touch of his hands on her skin.

The afternoon had been grey and leaden although the air had felt shifting and sentient. It had been tilted and oddly off-centre as she'd walked through the shadowy house. She remembered the cold of the window pane and the yellow splash of the tulips, and her hands reaching out in the darkness, so certain he had been standing there. _So certain_… in-spite of her heartache and the bone-aching feeling of exhaustion. All her nerves had been jumping like crickets and there was no chance she had fallen asleep.

It had been Peter, _Peter _beside her, no ghost or hallucination. She had summoned him and he had come to her, just as warm and as real as he was now. She still had no convincing explanation, other than he'd been attempting to comfort her. _It was typical of the man,_ she smiled a little. She knew in her heart he would move heaven and earth to try and help ease her pain.

In another time and place she would have laughed at herself. She wasn't given to flights of fancy. She was sensible and down-to-earth and practical, a great believer in living for the moment.

In another time and place she would have got on the plane and jetted off to the damned symposium, but _here and now,_ everything was different and her world had been tipped upside-down.

Peter muttered a couple of words and then moved his head on the pillow. El watched as his eyelashes flickered before coming to rest on his cheek. _Did he remember, had he experienced it too - was it weird of her to even wonder? _Her scalp prickled a little in the half-light. Maybe one day she might even ask him, not just yet, but sometime in the future. When the night-terrors finally left her and their lives regained a semblance of normality.

_Maybe one day she might even ask him… or maybe she never would. _

El blinked as her eyes filled with emotion. Since he'd been home, she'd had no problem crying. It was strange and a little unsettling after all those arid days with no tears. Gradually, her muscles had begun to relax and the tightness in her chest was receding. If she closed her eyes and wished hard enough, then eventually, it might go away.

_One day…_ when he stopped looking so fragile and she could feel the strength return to his body. When his energy and clear-eyed vitality made the house burst with life once again.

Until then, she would continue to count her not inconsiderable blessings. El sighed; it was easier said than done when she still shouldered some of the blame. _Peter too_ - it was plain to see when she looked up and caught him watching her, his forehead furrowed with a criss-cross of lines as he worried on her behalf. He was sorry and she was sorry. Even Neal had confessed he felt guilty. At the end of the day, they had all been bruised and everyone was filled with regrets.

_Oh, Peter…_

She pulled the duvet over his shoulders and resisted an urge to kiss him. The painkillers were weaving their magic and he was obviously completely relaxed.

It was going to take rest and patience, but at long last, the doctors were pleased with him. He was doing a lot better than expected and healing up pretty well. It was hard to believe he had been so ill. That he'd been on the verge of leaving her. Even now, she could barely acknowledge that time, or come to terms with her pain.

_Just a feeling,_ it was just a feeling, and to think she had almost ignored it, that she'd actually gone to the airport and nearly boarded her plane. Shivering, El whispered a quick prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. If such a warning ever repeated itself, she would never disregard it again.

Switching her bedside lamp off, she snuggled down next to her husband. He felt warm and incredibly solid as he turned his head and muttered her name.

"Eliz'beth?"

She kissed his lips very softly, "Shh, yes, it's me. Now go back to sleep."

He was silent for a moment, and she thought he'd nodded off, but then he hitched an arm across her shoulders. Pulling her closer, she felt his warm breath tickle her ear.

"I was hoping you might want to make nice…"

_**THE END**_

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_**Lisa Paris - 2012**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris – 2012**_


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